


Some city, doesn't matter which.

by pimpam



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Angsty fluff?, Fluff, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 03:12:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11304522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pimpam/pseuds/pimpam
Summary: They're in Paris together when Maxwell realizes abruptly that they've both become men. They're getting up there. And, sipping his coffee opposite Zlatan, he starts wondering what might happen to them when they retire. He can't picture Zlatan not competing for something, and it's hard to see himself not following along.





	Some city, doesn't matter which.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [guti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/guti/gifts).



> \- This is inspired a bit from a drabble by @sixponderous. Thanks, Gabby. Hopefully I borrowed respectfully and didn't steal.  
> \- This was meant to be like half as long. Oh well. I'm in a mood.  
> \- I don't follow like any of these clubs, so it's probably terribly out of character and inaccurate. Oh well. I tried and therefore no one can criticise me. (That's how it works, right?.)

When Zlatan asks to crash with him for a few nights, Maxwell doesn't really know what to think. He does, but it's unkind and they're both young. The tables could easily be turned. (Though Maxwell probably wouldn't have spent his first paychecks on a _car_ , but whatever. The point stands.)

It takes them a minute. Zlatan speaks Bosnian and Swedish and a little bit of Dutch (enough to yell at a ref, anyway), and English he's learned off TV. Maxwell speaks Portuguese, and some Spanish, Dutch, and English here and there. They pantomime, manage to figure out that Maxwell has a spare mattress in his flat, and that's where Zlatan can set up camp while he figures his life out. 

A few nights turns into a month, into two, into half their time at Ajax. He'd be mad, but it's not like he was gonna let the kid, his teammate, sleep on the street. 

The first time Zlatan climbs into bed with Maxwell, it's after a loss. His kisses are needy and insecure, and Maxwell wishes he could smother the other boy. But they're both well into twenty, and heights have been divvied out. Zlatan bites at his lower lip and whines when he pushes into Maxwell and well, he'll grow into his height anyway. 

It becomes a thing after that. Even when Zlatan has his own place. They fuck in the Netherlands, Italy, Spain, France, and just about every country in between. Through the years, it becomes kind of a joke. Maxwell follows Zlatan, keeps him company. Zlatan is Zlatan so nobody questions it much further. They're _very good friends_. 

Zlatan grows into his height, pinning Maxwell's arms above his head and devouring his mouth. He keens upwards, towards that heat and delightful pressure. Zlatan pulls away, too shameless to whisper sweet nothings in his ear so he just says them. "You like that, eh? It's nice to have a big man like Zlatan on top of you." And Max does, actually, so he follows Zlatan back and forth across Europe for the better part of a decade. 

They're in Paris together when Maxwell realizes abruptly that they've both become men. They're getting up there by footballing standards. And, sipping his coffee opposite Zlatan, he starts wondering what might happen to them when they retire (because it's _when_ now rather than _if_ ). He can't picture Zlatan not competing for something, and it's hard to see himself not following along. 

For a moment, Max lets himself imagine a spacious flat with Scandinavian designed furniture, and wildly colorful Brazilian textiles. It's in some city they've shared, doesn't matter which. Zlatan goes for a jog each morning religiously, while Maxwell reads the paper lazily, a mug of home ground coffee in hand. Maybe they have a dog. Maybe they spend the summers in Morocco and lay together on white linen sheets until late in the day. 

Paris Saint-Germain win the season handily. Zlatan announces he's moving. Maxwell decides to give it another year and then retire quietly in Paris with nothing left to prove. Zlatan marches off to Manchester, joining Mourinho presumably for new heights of glory. And Maxwell isn’t bitter, even if the cafés of le Marais lose their artisanal charm. It isn't as if they've never been apart and he likes Paris. Well enough, anyway.

When he announces his retirement officially, Zlatan calls him even though he’d been the first to know it was coming. It’s different somehow, to have it out publicly. "Come to Manchester," he says, voice still weird and booming even over the tinny line. 

"I could," Maxwell replies easily, not flinching at the volume, or the fact that Zlatan has more or less ordered him to do something. That's just Zlatan. If Max gives in, it'll be because that's what he wants and they both know it. It's nice to be free of any pretense otherwise.

"I'm not taking a contract there, so it won't reassure anyone that you're staying." He smiles, and he doesn't have to see to know Zlatan is smiling back. 

"Come keep me company, old man." 

Maxwell snorts, or maybes huffs. It was something between a sigh and a laugh, a beguiled semi-voiced exhale expressing months of separation. "We're the same age, you know."

"Yes," Zlatan replies without missing a beat. "But you are _old_ and retired and Zlatan is not," --he pauses for a second, dramatic flair-- "Old man."

"The north of England isn't exactly a summer vacation hot spot." Zlatan growls, deep but still tinny over the connection. 

"We go to South America, then. You come here, we fly there... Cancun, Rio de Janeiro. Wherever." It's dismissive, like he already knows Maxwell will agree. And he's not wrong. And it's nice to know Zlatan is willing to plan his summer according to Maxwell's vacation whims. 

"Maybe Milan," he muses. Zlatan barks a laugh back at him. "I'll book a flight. Text you the details."

"Good!" Again, he doesn't have to see Zlatan's face to know he's grinning. Maxwell pictures him, a giant hobbling around comically excited on crutches, clutching a mobile phone. "There is a very good Indian restaurant near my flat. We will go."

But Zlatan's waiting at the airport in Manchester when Maxwell arrives a day later with little more than an overnight bag and no return ticket. He looks absolutely ridiculous in a cap and dark sunglasses, trying to simultaneously blend into the crowd, wave frantically for Maxwell's attention, and keep himself verticale on his crutches. It's stupid, it's charming and that's enough for now. 

Zlatan almost sends them tumbling over. He knocks Maxwell’s bag out of his hand, and drops his half-finished fizzy water hard against the linoleum of the airport floor. He’s big and warm, enveloping Maxwell’s shoulders in an embrace that’s oh so fond, oh so familiar. 

When they break apart again, he knocks Maxwell lightly on the shoulder, miraculously balancing himself enough to land the blow. “You look good, old man. Barely old at all.”

When Zlatan grins at him it’s big and toothy, and even though they’re in public and it’s terribly inadvisable, Maxwell has the urge to kiss the expression off of him. It takes him back way too easily to youthful indiscretions and stolen kisses across the various capitals of Europe. Long nights and too long limbs tangled in perfectly white hotel sheets.

“And you barely look crippled,” he replies, the ghost of a smile on his lips. Zlatan only looks mildly annoyed, because, well, it’s Maxwell. He’s allowed. “That hair though,” he makes a face and Zlatan knocks him not quite casually with a crutch as he picks up his bag. Maxwell smirks back at him fondly.

He follows Zlatan to the carpark, and then the city of Manchester proper. Because, well, he’s Zlatan, and Maxwell is Maxwell. And they won't shack up in Barcelona, or Milan, or Amsterdam, at least not as of yet. But someday, maybe.


End file.
